


Martial Bliss

by fallingforcas



Series: Husband's n' shit [9]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Cute, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Pillow Talk, Protective Ian Gallagher, Protective Mickey Milkovich, hurt!Ian, hurt!mickey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-23 03:49:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23271856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallingforcas/pseuds/fallingforcas
Summary: #2 "Just let me take care of you, okay?"Ian and Mickey take care of eachother.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher & Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: Husband's n' shit [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1643434
Comments: 7
Kudos: 191





	Martial Bliss

It reaches 2am when Ian had eventually found himself at the bottom of his porch steps. After a tiring and strenuous walk home, with numb legs and noticeable patches of blood embedded within the material of his shirt, Ian finally exhales for the first time in what felt like endless years of mind-numbing pain. The steps resemble an unbeatable obstacle, an exhausting exercise leading to his front-door. Now, three-years after his and Mickey’s wedding, they had began renting their own place, leaving the Gallagher home in Debbie’s hands. It was small, damp, and incredibly cold during winter, but it was theirs and that thought never failed to cause Ian’s heart to run rampant.   


Wincing, a hardened hand pressed against his bruised ribs, he ascends the steps with a juddering breath. As he does, the memories begin to flood back with speed. He and Mickey had an argument, Ian barely remembered what it was about, and they had both went separate ways, muttering and cursing under their breaths, and Ian had decided the Alibi was the best emotional medicine for him. Even without his medication, Ian had always been known to be a lightweight, but when on the medication he could hardly cope with the intoxicating effects of alcohol. After two beers, and Kev cutting him off with a worried stare, Ian was already swaying in his seated position against the bar.   


When drinking, Ian’s actions went either two ways: one, he expressed his love for everything, and anyone, in his path. Mickey would shove him off, call him a sap, and pretend that a twitching smile wasn’t curling at the corners of his lips, and that encouraged Ian’s adoration more. Or, two: Ian let his emotions rise, unpredictable and unprecedented, and got angry. The rage formed from unspoken trauma, and underlying insecurities that fed at his drunken mind. He’d never intentionally start a fight, but he would if the person was shit-talking his husband two meters away from him.   


That’s how the bruises fell against his pale skin, his bust lip pulsating, dried blood scattered against his face. Ian had been minding his own business, lost within his own drunken thoughts, until he had heard one of Terry’s old buddies address Mickey’s current situation. It took almost two minutes for Ian to lose it. The guy had spurted bitterly, “fuckin’ Milkovich’s don’t suck dicks. Terry should have fuckin’ killed him when he had the chance. Fuckin’ cock-suckin’ homo—” Ian wouldn’t gift the guy the chance to finish his sentence, his fist cutting the words off as they slammed into the guys cheek.   


“Who. The. Fuck. Do. You. Think. You. Are.” Ian spoke between hits, the guy falling to the fall in a surprised thud, and he straddled him with an undeniable weight.   


Still, despite the adrenaline thriving through his bloodstream, Ian had always had a problem with accessing the situation before heading into the fire. Unfortunately, he had forgotten that the shit-talking trash that had bad-named Mickey was with another four guys, all equally as big and equally as scary as the guy underneath Ian. He could take one; maybe two, without the alcohol. But he soon realised he had made a mistake when the four others jumped onto his back, one smashing a bottle over his head, the other dragging him off the guy below. Until Kev finally broke the fight away, Ian had been pushed to the sticky-bar floor, receiving hits from all angles, eye popping up in a swell after a fist slammed into it serval times, and he was sure his ribs were broken by that point. Choking on his own spit, he managed to get some hits back in, but his body was now numb with pain, all shaky and plain useless, so he waits for Kev to rescue him from his stupid decisions.   


However, he didn’t regret his choice. He loved Mickey. He hated anyone who chose to not love Mickey. Despite the bruises, he broken ribs, his bleeding face, he felt pride in what he had initiated. He might have lost by a milestone, but he would never allow anyone to talk bad of Mickey, even if it meant death as the result. He had felt immense guilt for their fight, letting his injuries count as a punishment for pushing Mickey away. He only hoped that his husband would be waiting for him behind the door, all snuggled up in their blankets, waiting. Then, suddenly, Ian doesn’t hope for that, considering his appearance. Mickey hated seeing Ian sick, beaten, or even hurt by an inanimate object; such as, the plug that Ian had stepped on two weeks before. Mickey would hurt, kill, or skin alive anyone, or anything, that had hurt Ian. As much as Ian found Mickey’s profound need to protect him endearing, hot even, the only cure for his beaten-up body was Mickey’s arms wrapped around him and his tender kisses that healed anything.   


If Mickey saw Ian in this state, he’d be out for murder. So, Ian opts for trying his best to hide his injuries. With Mickey, hopefully, still out in a huff, Ian had time to clean up. He could blame it on Lip, or his medication making him clumsy that he lost his footing, or the alcohol he, was now glad, had consumed. Ian opens the door with a light shove, hissing as he pushes himself into their home, listening out for any sign of life within the clouded darkness. Usually, Ian hated the silence, but as he limps through their living room, he was overjoyed with the fact that Mickey wasn’t grunting his name, or stood seething at their bedroom door.   


“Mickey?” Ian calls out, pleading that he wouldn’t receive an answer.   


Ian gives it five minutes, hearing nothing but silence and the drip of the kitchen tap they had been meaning to fix. With a huge sigh of relief, Ian sheds his coat with difficulty, letting it fall onto the floor. Lifting his shirt, even in the basking darkness of the room, he could see the bruises turning into a black shadow against his throbbing ribs. He gulps, the alcohol beginning to wear off, and the pain starts to grow worse, tingling and pinching his muscles. He walks towards the bathroom, stumbling over various items and pieces of discarded clothing, and hisses through his split lip. His head was pounding, fingers shaking, and his eyes blurring as they remained dry. Ian switches the bathroom light on, shielding his eyes as the light burned his vison, he mutters a helpless fuck beneath his breath, attempting to hold his legs up and to not fall into a devastated heap against the tiled floor.   


Stumbling against his footing causing him to slip a little, Ian puts all his strength into reaching for the medicine cabinet. He fumbles around with numerous bottles of pills, all mainly his and some being a strange combination of Mickey’s stolen achievements. Finally finding a small tub of painkillers, Ian sways a little as he pops two into his mouth, swallowing them dry. Slowly, as his stomach churns, he drops the lid of the toilet and perches himself on-top of it as his head falls into his hands. It was late, and even if Mickey was ready to talk out their argument, it was too late for Ian to waste time sulking through the dull pain. Wiping his bloodied knuckles against his chin, he amps himself up with some strength that he knew he had left inside him.   


As he grips to the side of the sink, failing to lift himself up, he hears a sequence of crashes and thuds echo from down the hall. Shit. Ian thought to himself. It was either, most definitely knowing Ian’s luck, Mickey. That or the guys from the Alibi had caught up to him, ready to kill him in the confines of his small bathroom. Ian chose the prior, too exhausted to be beaten to a pulp amid damp walls and decaying tiles. The thuds carry on and Ian winces at the realisation that Mickey was obviously still in a bad mood. Knowing Ian had been in a fight, that he clearly lost, would push him over the edge.   


Using every ounce of his being, Ian pushes himself up from the toilet. He hisses through his teeth, head growing heavy with his beating migraine. Squinting as he struggled to see without it hurting, he releases an anxious breath before exiting the bathroom. Once outside, he hears the disgruntled tone of Mickey’s voice. “Fuckin’—stupid fuck—” Ian gulps, certain that those spits of anger were directed towards him, most likely.   


Ian steps into the living area, unrecognised by Mickey, and as he flickers the lights on, he speaks with a groan, “Before you say anything, Mick, it’s just—”   


Once light threads suddenly across the room, Ian’s eyes latch onto Mickey who is unexpectedly falls onto his ass in surprise at Ian’s sudden appearance. “What the fuck—jesus, Gallagher!”   


For a moment, with Ian slumped against the wall and Mickey leaning up against his arms after his fall, they glance and examine each-other’s appearance. Mickey’s mouth drops open, his eyes widening in a mixture of hurt and fury. Ian’s face does the same, anxiety flooding through his body as he fails to mask his injuries, noticing that Mickey also was shrouded in his own injuries. Mickey held a black bruise around his left eye, a large cut against his cheek that now scabbed over, his clothes all ripped, and his shirt covered in blood by his ribcage. Ian hadn’t recalled Mickey having such distinct marks across his body that afternoon, and he finally realised that he too had been through something brutal that night.   


Discarding his own pain, Ian feels protectiveness riding over his emotions. He rushes forward, as fast as his aching legs allowed him, and stood above Mickey who was slowly trying to step up from the floor. “What the fuck happened to you?” Ian asks, handing out his palm to be rejected.   


Mickey curses below his breath, jumping up but winces simultaneously in an agonising grumble. His eyes trace over Ian’s shattered exterior, his mouth twitching in a way that Ian recognised as his brewing anger, and he ignores Ian’s worried question. “The fuck happened to you?”   


“I’m fine. It’s nothing.” Ian lies, trying not to think about the numbness at the back of his head that had started to escalate. He repeats his false reassurance, “I’ll walk it off.”   


Mickey’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline, highlighting the small bleeding cut by the dark hairs. He steps over to Ian, “Walk it off my ass. You can’t barely fuckin’ stand, Ian.”   


Ian doesn’t understand why Mickey is completely ignoring the fact that he too could barely stand. Ian wanted Mickey’s attempts of dragging information out of him to stop so he could do just that in return. “I could say the same thing to you. What happened?”   


“Bathroom. Now.” Mickey demands, fingering his tooth as he darts his eyes towards Ian in a directing glare. Ian doesn’t budge, stuck still in the spot, as his head begins to override his ability to move. Mickey grabs at his arm, yet another visible cut exposing itself as his sleeve shifted up his arm, and Ian cries in the back of his throat. “You going to move?” Mickey asks, trying once more.   


Shaking his head, an unwise move, Ian refuses. “I’m just going to stay here, I think. My head is fuckin’ pounding.” He lets his body fall to the couch, and he speaks lowly, “Just need to…stay.”   


Mickey scoffs, releasing his grip. After struggling to pull off his jacket, he snarls out a comment as he stumbled to the bathroom. He had a way of knowing Ian would follow. “Fine. You want to stay in here and die, so be it. I aint carrying your lanky ass.”   


Despite Ian’s internal protests that ask him to not follow Mickey into the bathroom, he did it anyway. He didn’t have the strength to explain the events to Mickey, nor did his legs have the capability to chase him as he threated murder. But, as always, Ian hears the bathroom door swing open and he can’t help his need to follow. If anything, he only followed to be in Mickey’s space, to know that he was there, because he felt safe in that space. Mickey made him feel safe; and right now, when his head was on the verge of exploding, and his body was starting to fall limp, he needed Mickey. Despite Mickey’s reluctance to show that he cared, Ian knew he did care. Ian cared too; he was just as worried as Mickey, wondering why his husband had showed up all blooded and broken. So, he steps up unwillingly and makes his second trip to the bathroom.   


Once he reaches the bathroom, Ian’s heart drops at the sight. Mickey was hurled over the toilet bowl, his hair all over the place as he puked. Somehow feeling Ian’s presence behind him, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, flushing the toilet with an embarrassed grunt. Turning his beaten face around, he doesn’t give Ian a chance to question anything, “Sit.” He points to the toilet.   


“Mickey—” Ian goes to say, but is immediately interrupted.   


“I _said_ sit.” Mickey repeats.   


Ian rolls his eyes as the burning sensation grew worse. He does what Mickey asks, well bitterly commanded, and sat against the seat Mickey had pointed to. In the bright light of the bathroom, he finally can see the extent of Mickey’s injuries. They were bad. Mickey was hurt, yet similarly trying to hide the fact he even had them, and Ian hated it. For sure, Ian had seen Mickey with various injuries, but it didn’t make it any easier. He pleads Mickey’s name again, “Mick?”   


Mickey’s angry, for sure. He ignores Ian’s attempts of coaxing his attention, and motions his hand towards Ian’s shirt. “Up.” He commands, lips pressed into a thin line as Ian lifted his arms for him to remove his shirt.   


Ian goes to call out to Mickey, but is distracted by the shift in Mickey’s expression. Suddenly, Mickey’s eyes pool with water, all red around the edges, and he bites at his lip. Ian feels guilty. Mickey shakes his head, ridding of the tears that formed, and glances over the bruises that covered the entirety of Ian’s ribs, all shades of greens, blues, but mainly black. “Shit. That’s some nasty bruising, Gallagher. It’ll be sore for a few days.”   


Mickey’s acting strange and Ian can sense the underlying protectiveness pushing through Mickey’s hard exterior. It’s the expression Ian had seen sitting on Mickey’s face many times before; Ian’s diagnosis, when Ian was sick that one winter because they left the window open. Anytime Ian had been hurt, sick, or just bundled up with a cold, Mickey would avoid revealing how it would make him want to hurl seeing Ian in such a state, and act calmly, as if he was numb to it.   


“Mickey, just stop for a second.” Ian grips to Mickey’s wrist.   


Yet again, Mickey ignores Ian’s pleads. He places his hands against his hips, spitting out with words, “You gonna tell me what happened?”   


Giving in, Ian shrugs, fiddling with his fingers as his head dips with shame. “I told you, it’s nothing.” He glances up to Mickey, who looks utterly unimpressed with his answer. “I went to the Alibi, had a couple of drinks. You know how my meds get. I fell. That’s it. Just me being fuckin’ clumsy.”   


Mickey laughs, not falling for Ian’s made up explanation. He points to Ian’s now-swelling eye. “The floor give you that shiner too, huh?”   


Ian rubs a hand across his face, growing tired. “Mickey…”   


Mickey quickly crouches down, his face almost level to Ian’s. Despite the bruises forming around his own eyes, he looked beautiful. Ian attempts to process such beauty between his blurring eyes and pounding skull. Mickey’s tone remains cold, “You think I don’t know when you’re lying to me? Tell me what the fuck happened, Ian. Or I’ll find out for myself.”   


Sighing heavily, Ian realises he must confess to his actions back at the bar because Mickey would find out for himself and Ian didn’t want him leaving again. Ian needed him there whilst his head was mashed up. He lifts his head a little, staring into Mickey’s yearning eyes, “They were talking shit about you. I couldn’t--- I couldn’t sit there and do nothing, Mick.”   


“Who?” Mickey asks, voice now soft.   


Ian groans, he didn’t want Mickey knowing who because Mickey would be out for murder and he was unable to stop him from doing just that. “Terry’s friends. Those idiots that always walk around thinking that they’re part of some higher fuckin’ order.”   


As Ian speaks, Mickey’s already gearing up for a beat down, searching the room for his knuckle duster that he had placed in there. “Those fuckers. I’m going to fuckin’ kill—”   


Stopping Mickey’s chatter, gripping to his arm as he rushed around the small space, Ian pleads, “Please, Mickey. Just leave it, okay? Just stay.”   


Ian’s watering, puppy-dog eyes are enough for Mickey to listen. Mickey’s body deflates from tension, his mouth opening and closing as he tried to form a response. Ian made his insides crumble in a second, his thoughts stopping in there rapid rattling, and he hated how easily he could fall into it. Mickey sighs, moving back towards Ian. “You atleast get a few good punches in?”   


Ashamed, Ian nods. “A couple. I forgot about the other four. Jumped me and I couldn’t get a hit in. Fuckin’ sucked, man. If it wasn’t for Kev, I’d probably be dead meat by now.”   


Mickey avoids his gaze, grabbing a towel from the side of the bath and wetting it in the sink. He listens, before admitting, “Yeah, you look like shit.” He presses the towel onto a shallow cut at the side of Ian’s lip.   


“Hey!” Ian calls out, shrinking with the tinge of pain that sharply ran through his body. “Be careful with that, would you?”   


Mickey chuckles, continuing to dab at the cut until the dried blood had vanished from the plump skin. “That’s what you get for picking fuckin’ fights, Firecrotch.”   


Ian frowns, trying not to beam at the old nickname. His hand runs against Mickey’s chest, softly stroking down the stained material. As Mickey begins to clean him up, determination taking over his face, Ian takes the limited time to glance over Mickey’s appearance. It’s obvious Mickey’s in some pain, and Ian forgets his own as his own mind racks with guilt.   


Ian’s fingers trace over the blood against Mickey’s crumpled shirt, worry pulsating through his bones, “That’s a lot of blood, Mick.”   


Quickly glancing down to his own chest, Mickey shrugs nonchalantly, “that’s not my blood,” he dabs at Ian’s lip again, until he takes a second look at his own injuries, “I think.”   


“You think? What the fuck, Mickey?” Ian barks back. How could Mickey be so casual about this? His shirt was covered in blood and he didn’t seem to care an ounce.   


Mickey shrugs without a care again, placing the towel back onto the side of the bath. He places a gentle hand at the side of Ian’s cheek, bloodied knuckles against Ian’s bruised cheek, “You ain’t got to worry about me, Ian. I can fight my own fuckin’ battles.”   


Usually, Ian would embrace the rare gesture of gentleness from Mickey. But he was tired of Mickey rejecting Ian’s attempts to care about him and worry about him. Ian would endlessly worry about his stubborn husband and Mickey would have to deal with that. Somehow, despite his legs starting to go dead with lack of circulation, he switches their positions, shoving Mickey onto the toilet.   


Angrily, he grips the towel Mickey had tossed, and pointed towards a startled Mickey. “That’s where you’re wrong. I do have to worry about you.” Mickey rolls his eyes; Ian makes his point clearer by making his tone sterner. “Through sickness and in health, remember?”   


“Tch.” Mickey tuts, trying to not look into Ian’s eyes.   


Ian’s had enough. He kicks at Mickey’s boot, “don’t tch me.”   


“Make me.” Mickey wiggles his brows, immediately regretting his decision as his face swells with hurt. Ian notices Mickey’s grimace of discomfort and barks out in laughter, his ribs jolting as he did so.   


Ian grabs at his side, still chuckling at Mickey’s expense. He hums as his amusement dies down, uttering between chuckles as he leans down towards Mickey’s scowling face. “You’re like a fuckin’ horny tornado.”   


Swatting Ian’s prying hands away, Mickey moans, “hurry the fuck up, man. I want to go to bed.”   


Bed sounded good, Ian thought. But before bed he had to clean up Mickey. He shakes his head, “God, just let me take care of you, okay?”   


“Don’t fuckin’ need to.” Mickey scowls against the towel on his face.   


Pulling the towel away, stepping up straight, Ian huffs, “So, what. You can take care of me when I’m all beaten up and bloody, but I can’t return the favour? Is that how it is?”   


“Yep.” Mickey punctuates his answer, eyes towards the floor.   


Ian tilts Mickey’s chin up with a delicate finger, his tone all soft and gooey, a sound that Mickey’s whole being crumbled against, “Well, news flash, Mick, I’m fuckin’ doing it anyway.”   


Mickey’s lips curl up a little at the sides, reminiscent of his near smile back when Ian had visited him in juvie for the first time, and he ducks his head shyly. Ian smiles lovingly to himself, watching Mickey blush bashfully in-front of him. He tosses the towel onto the floor, offering his hand towards Mickey. “Come on, lets go to bed.”   


“Finally,” Mickey grabs Ian’s hand allowing him to help him up.   


As soon as Mickey is fully on his feet, Ian’s suddenly pulling him into a crushing hug. Mickey’s face crashes into Ian’s chest, all warm and smelling of sweet Irish soap, and he doesn’t bother to push away or detest the embrace. Ian leans his chin against Mickey’s shoulder, sighing into the hug as if it had erased the weight off his shoulders. He feels his heart bang against his chest, thumping to the thud of Mickey’s wrapped around him. He was so in love. Mickey’s hugs were something special, rare, and saved for only those who fit into his little inner circle. These hugs, the soft embraces, and the little touches of adoration were saved just for Ian.   


A couple of minutes pass by and Mickey starts to shuffle in Ian’s arms, he lifts his head, “I feel like this has been an unnecessarily long hug, Gallagher.”   


Ian lifts his own head, grinning, “Woah, Mickey using big words.”   


Mickey shoves Ian off him playfully, failing to resist bearing his own widening grin. Ian’s lip looks ridiculous all swelled up, but he wants to kiss them, nonetheless. “Fuck off.”   


That’s when they start shoving and pushing at eachother, laughing loudly as they both wince and mutter ouch and ow at each playful jab. Ian begins tickling Mickey’s side, chasing him towards the bedroom. Mickey giggles and pushes away, trying to rid of Ian’s freakishly long fingers. Once they’re inside the room they are panting, all heaving with joy and sweat, and they smile towards eachother with love. Ian’s heart is pounding at the same rate at his head, and for a moment, he had forgotten that his body was shutting down with pain.   


He grips at his head, clenching his eyes shut as he began to feel sudden dizziness take over. “Fuck…”   


Mickey’s suddenly rushing over, hands roaming over Ian. “Shit, man. You need to lie down.”   


Ian falls onto the bed, his eyes still shut, as his arms flung to his sides. Mickey watches him, a sadden look replacing his beaming grin, and he begins taking Ian’s shoes off. He groans as he bends over, “Fuck.” He mutters, before glancing back over to Ian. “I’m going to fuckin’ kill them, Ian. I aint letting this shit go.”   


“Okay.” Ian whispers, unmoving. “Just not tonight.”   


Mickey throws Ian’s boot into the corner, “Fine.”   


Ian lets Mickey undress him piece by piece, until he was down to his boxers. The air was slightly cold, and Goosebumps started to rise against his pale skin, but he could still hear Mickey fumbling around him whilst his eyes remained shut. With his throat immensely dry, he speaks quietly, “You still need to tell me what happened to you, Mick.”   


“Nothing to know.” Mickey deadpans, chucking a blanket on Ian’s shivering frame. He begins stripping from his own clothes, squirming at each jolt his body felt with his movements.   


Eyes propping open, Ian leans against his elbows, the blanket almost up to his chin. “Come the fuck on, Mickey. You come in here all bruised and injured—”   


Mickey provides Ian with a sequence of mocking expressions, standing by the side of the bed to lift Ian’s legs onto it. Once Ian is finally laid against it, Mickey pulls off various items that littered the bed, his voice calm in comparison to his words, “I wasn’t injured, just slightly stabbed.”   


Ian chucks the blanket away from him, eyes bulging, “You were fuckin’ _stabbed?!_ Mickey, you usually lead with that information. Why the hell did you not tell me?”   


After finally clearing the bed, Mickey shrugs, “calm the fuck down, Gallagher.” He points over to a little stitched up cut against his chest, “as I said, slightly stabbed. Iggy patched me up, good as new. Didn’t want you to worry.”   


Mickey climbs into the bed, pulling the blanket over himself. Ian crosses his arms, huffing out an annoyed breath, “Worry? I’m sure as hell doing that now. Can’t _believe_ you didn’t tell me. Like you were _stabbed,_ Mickey, and you’re acting like it’s the most normal thing in the world. You could have fuckin’ died—”   


Mickey looks towards Ian, frowning with disbelief at Ian’s ongoing manic chatter. Ian tended to freak out about Mickey in life-threatening situations, which was one of the main reasons why Mickey hadn’t told him. Didn’t stop Mickey from realising that Ian did the exact same; he acted as if Mickey didn’t know he always tried to hide his injuries just so Mickey wouldn’t freak out and kill someone. “Yeah, just like you hiding in the goddamn bathroom. You think I don’t know you do that, so I don’t go out and kill the fuckers who put a hand on you? You’re dumb, Gallagher.”   


Ian turns his head towards Ian, still irritated, “You’re unbelievable.”   


Smirking, Mickey jokes, “unbelievably _hot._ ”   


Shaking his head, chuckling at Mickey’s lame attempt at a joke, Ian mutters, “Oh, please.”   


They lay there, side by side, all bruised and looking like broken dolls, and they giggle amongst themselves, basking in the light air that surrounded them. Mickey goes to turn on his side, a routinely position he kept while they participated in pillow-talk, that Mickey pretended to hate, but his injured side halts his movements. “Jesus, fuck—”   


Ian giggles louder, “You’re such a wuss.”   


Mickey slaps at Ian’s chest, hoping that Ian felt it more than his hand did, and groans against the sheets trying to get comfortable. “Fuck off. Says the guy nearly fuckin’ fainting before.” He shuffles some more, the sheets curling up around him as he pleaded to get a position where his side was killing him. Ian notices, all beaming with a smile against his defeated face, and nudges Mickey’s arm.   


“C’mere, sweet potato.” Ian teases, nudging him again.   


“Sweet fuckin’ po—” Mickey’s attention immediately beckons towards Ian, his eyebrows shooting up, “you call me that shit again I’ll rip your tongue out of your head.”   


Ian giggles, unphased by Mickey’s attempt at intimidation. He nudges him again, lifting his arm in a signal for Mickey to curl up to him. Mickey shoots him a sneer, but he can’t stop himself from shuffling across the bed, next to Ian. He places his head at the top of Ian’s shoulder, rubbing his face in comfort at the position. Ian drops his arm, wrapping it around Mickey as his head lolls back against the pillow. Mickey sticks himself to his side, carefully making sure he wasn’t resting to hard against Ian’s bruises.   


Ian runs his hands soothingly through Mickey’s hair, sighing, “Ah, martial bliss at it’s finest.”   


Mickey hums in satisfaction, eyes fluttering shit as Ian’s fingers run against his scalp. He’s too tired to fire back a comeback, too comfortable in Ian’s warm embrace to care to. His own hand traces circles against Ian’s chest, following the lining of his bruise-painted muscles. He likes it here. Against Ian’s chest, all wrapped up in their blankets, and he feels safe. Mickey didn’t get scared easily but Ian scared him. Losing Ian scared him. Being there, laying against the sheets, curled up in adoring bliss with darkness clouding them in comfort, he felt safe.   


Just as Mickey felt himself fall into sleep; Ian’s whispering voice brings his mind back. “Mickey?”   


“Hm?” Mickey murmurs.   


Ian’s voice grows louder, removing his hand from Mickey’s head to place it over his own face. He groans a little, “You ever think about death?”   


Mickey lifts his head, popping one eye open in annoyance to Ian stopping him from falling into a peaceful slumber. “I don’t give a shit about death, man. Let me fuckin’ sleep.”   


As usual, Ian’s rambling continues, “I think I’m dying.”   


Placing his head back down into its favoured position, Mickey grunts, “you’re not fuckin’ dying, Ian. Now, go to sleep. Jesus.”   


“These things happen, Mick. People hit their head, or are hit in the head and then suddenly --- boop --- they’re dead. Just like that.”   


Mickey can sense Ian beginning to freak out, like he always did, and he squeezes at Ian’s bicep in a way of comfort. He snorts, responding with amusement, “You’re fine, Gallagher. Listen to the fuckin’ expert.”   


Ian starts laughing, thankfully. He places his hand back down to Ian’s scalp, fingers working through his hair. “We’re such messes,” he laughs again, his chest vibrating against Mickey, “we need to stop this shit.”   


“Nah,” Mickey whispers, face squished against Ian, “gives us stories to tell the grandkids and all that shit.”   


Ian doesn’t notice Mickey’s hint towards children, utterly dumbfounded by Mickey’s casual manner in talking to children about the normalities of being beaten up. “What an ugly, sadistic and fuckin’ _weird_ story to tell children.”   


Mickey doesn’t answer, becoming quiet against Ian’s chest. For a second, Ian believes Mickey has fallen asleep. That’s until Mickey suddenly whispers, “I did it for you.”   


Dipping his head towards Mickey, Ian asks, confused, “Did what?”   


Becoming shy, Mickey hides his face against Ian’s chest. His voice is small, so small Ian barely heard it, but the words were sincere, “They were calling you fuckin’ crazy, man. I got pissed. Unlike you, I beat the shit out of them fuckers.” Mickey doesn’t need to look at Ian to know that he’s grinning wildly, “Wipe that shit off your face, man, it doesn’t mean anything.”   


Ian can’t behold his love for Mickey in that moment. Mickey had, undoubtably, defended him. Just like he had. Mickey was too scared, or embarrassed, to admit such actions because he always tried to uphold his emotionally constipated reputation. Ian always broke down that hard shell, the infinite barrier that Mickey shielded himself with, and it always amazed him and filled him with immense awe whenever Mickey let Ian through those barriers. Ian kisses the top of Mickey’s head, releasing his words delicately, “I love you.”   


Ian doesn’t need a response from Mickey because his actions were enough proof to know that Mickey felt that way too. He kisses Mickey’s hair again, giggling to himself, “You defending my honour. That’s so romantic, Mick. Didn’t think you had it in you.”   


Mickey slaps his hand against Ian’s collar, letting out an exasperated sigh. “God, you’re so fuckin’ annoying.”   


It only makes Ian giggle more. He lifts Mickey’s sleepy chin up, towards him, and smiles endearingly towards his husband. He can’t believe how far they had come, where they had ended up, and that they were finally able to enjoy each-other without any unhinged obstacles. He kisses Mickey’s lips tenderly, and when he pulls back Mickey’s also smiling. Ian whispers, “thank you.”   


Mickey wraps his fingers around Ian’s wrist gently, his eyes fluttering closed as he rested his head back down to Ian’s shoulder. His mouth churns up into a sweet, soft smile, and he whispers into the darkness, “I love you too, man.” 

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any prompts --- as I'm in self-isolation and writing will probs stop me from going insane --- send them to my tumblr, im-an-angel-y0u-ass.tumblr.com :) 
> 
> Love you all...thankyou for all the comments and kudos, you're all in my heart :)


End file.
